Like a Rolling Stone
by fennecfawkes
Summary: Harry/Draco. Reacquainted and it feels so good. Warnings: not my characters. Not epilogue compliant. Heavily involves karaoke and inner monologues.
1. The Tarnished Sickle

"Pansy. Pansy. _Pansy_."

"What?"

"He's here again."

Pansy Parkinson sighs and shakes her head. "He's always here on Tuesday evenings. Thursdays, too. You _know _that, so why do you insist on telling me?" She and Draco are sitting at their usual table in the Tarnished Sickle, their favorite low-end bar at the edge of Diagon Alley. The he in question is Harry Potter, accompanied as always by Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. They've also got Neville Longbottom and Weasley's younger sister in tow, plus a man Draco hardly recognizes.

"Who's that who keeps touching him?" Draco asks before taking a long drag off his cigarette.

Pansy narrows her eyes. "That's Oliver Wood. He was the Gryffindor Quidditch captain. Fit, isn't he?"

"Not my type," Draco says dismissively, waving his hand at their waitress. She hurries over, and he orders another firewhiskey for himself and "something pink that tastes like candy" for Pansy. Because they're regulars, Cass, the waitress, takes this in stride and reports back to the bartender. Aloysius isn't Draco's favorite among them, but he makes decent enough mixes for Pansy and always gives Draco at least one free drink over the course of the night. On second thought, maybe Aloysius is his favorite. It's not his fault he's not as nice to look at as David. But then, David _is _very nice to look at.

"What the hell's on your mind?" Pansy asks.

"Who's your favorite bartender here? Actually, wait. I don't care. What Wood's doing to Potter is muchmore important." Wood's arm is snaked around Potter's shoulder, and he's whispering into Potter's ear. Potter looks highly uncomfortable, which would be funny if Draco weren't so angry. No matter how many different people make Harry Potter this kind of uncomfortable, it always makes Draco the same kind of angry, because only _he _should be allowed to make Potter squirm. It's what he does nearly every time they interact at the Ministry, where Draco's Junior Undersecretary in the Minister's office and Potter's next in line for Head Auror. And he doesn't do it with touching and whispering. He does it with ... cunning. And malice. Because he's never felt anything other than malice and contempt and pure, simple hatred for Potter.

_Well_, he thinks as Potter's irritatingly sparkly green eyes widen at something Wood's whispered. _Lust, maybe. But not with any affection attached._

"I didn't know Wood was gay," Pansy muses. "Looks like he's doing a pretty good job of winding Potter up, though. Jealous?"

"I'm never jealous," says Draco. "It's unbecoming. I'm just ... concerned. Potter really needs to learn how to say no. And Wood's not gay, as far as I can remember. He's indiscriminant, just like Potter."

"You could teach him, you know. How to say no. Don't you have to coach him on things sometimes at work?" Work is a foreign concept to Pansy, who's engaged to an extremely wealthy, disarmingly handsome French pureblood. The marriage was arranged years before, around which time Pansy gave up on the idea of occupying her time with very much of anything at all.

"Not relationship things."

"But you could, right?"

"I think I might get called off. Kingsley quite likes Potter and probably wouldn't want his Golden Boy completely distracted by what would doubtless be a compelling lesson in how to say no to an overeager suitor." Draco pauses. "Or ... female admirer. Is there a word for a female suitor? Suitress? Suitette?"

"Hell if I know," says Pansy. "What you _could _do, though, is ask him out."

"No."

"But Draco—"

"We've been over this. I'm not interested in Potter."

"Then why do we talk about him every time we're at this bar, whether he's here or not?"

Draco watches as Potter unlatches Wood's arm from around his shoulders. There's an apologetic look on Potter's face as he scoots out of the booth and walks out of the bar. As he passes, Potter nods at Draco, saying, "Night, Malfoy."

"Night, Potter," Draco says softly. He turns to Pansy. "Because of course I'm actually interested in Potter. He's more than passably intelligent, he's gotten way better looking than he has any right to, he's damn good at what he does, and he forgave you, even though you were a thoughtless bint, and he forgave me, even though I was an unrepentant prick. But if I admitted that more often, we wouldn't have nearly as much fun as we do now, with me pretending I don't and you being on to me, would we?"

"Fair point," says Pansy. "Another round?"

"Always."


	2. The Ministry Cafeteria

"I think my spoon is stuck in my soup," Ron says, poking at the offending liquid with his finger. "If we're really the Ministry's best and brightest, shouldn't the food be better than it is?"

"The elves in the Ministry's employ are extremely overworked," says Hermione, and Harry can tell she's on her way to an impassioned tirade against house elf cruelty. Working in the Magical Creatures department 50-odd hours a week has only led to more devotion to the cause, if that were even possible. "They don't have time to make the kind of food we ate at Hogwarts. No French onion soup or steak and kidney pies or treacle tart or—"

"Stop. Please." Ron holds up his hand. "Please don't remind me of all the things I'm not eating right now."

Harry laughs and looks over to the entrance of the dining hall, where Blaise Zabini is talking, loudly as ever, at Draco Malfoy, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. Zabini has some sort of secretarial position in the Minister's office, though Harry's never bothered to learn what it is, and he appears to be at Malfoy's beck and call constantly. Harry does his best to convince himself it would be a horrible job but can't suppress the twinge of jealousy he feels when Zabini places his hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

It's not that Harry _likes _Malfoy, although he has gotten much more tolerable in the eight years since what would have been Harry's seventh at Hogwarts. Now that they're in their mid-twenties, they do their best to act like it, and for the most part, it seems to work. Granted, Malfoy's still better at needling Harry than anyone else has ever been, or ever will be. And he gets plenty of chances to needle, given the nature of Harry's work and how often he needs to be given the go ahead from the Minister or the Undersecretary—and, conveniently or not, Kingsley always seems busy when Harry's seeking approval. Even so, Malfoy is sharp and more than competent, and he's even got a good sense of humor. Plus, he's a little less angular now, and his facial features seem to have softened up a bit, and his hair and clothes are impeccable as ever, even when he's in Muggle clothing at the Tarnished Sickle. Actually, he looks even better in Muggle clothing than he did in robes. But just because Malfoy's attractive and clever and not so bad to be around doesn't mean Harry has some sort of affection for him.

Well, of course it does.

But that doesn't mean he has to admit it.

"I could go without hearing Zabini laugh ever again," Ron says, steering the topic away from the working conditions of house elves. "You think he and Malfoy are shagging?"

"Ron!" Hermione looks to be holding back laughter. "That's rude."

"What? It's not rude when you talk about who the Patils are with this week or that week, but I can't talk about the love lives of former Slytherins?"

"Nothing former about being a Slytherin," says Harry. "Malfoy may be less heinous than he used to be, but I'm sure he's still a sneaky bastard deep down."

"Don't look now, but that secretly sneaky bastard's headed your way," Ron says.

"Joy," says Harry, which is exactly what he's feeling, but Ron and Hermione don't have to know that—although, from the look on Hermione's face, she's well aware, and Harry wishes, not for the first time, that she didn't know absolutely everything.

"Looking forward to your performance review, Potter?" Malfoy sits down next to Harry.

"Oh, yeah, can't wait," says Harry. "Guessing that means I'm stuck with you, doesn't it?"

"Well, not just me. The Head Auror will be there, too, and Kingsley may even stop by. Don't know if you're aware of this, but you're fairly well known around here."

"Yeah, yeah. When is that, anyway?"

Malfoy snorts. "Are you being serious?"

"Well, I know it's soon. I just don't recall the exact—"

"Today, Potter."

"What?"

"At 3 o'clock this afternoon," Malfoy says, trademark smirk now firmly in place. "I don't suppose I can count on you to be ready for it, then."

"What do I have to be ready for?" asks Harry. "Don't I just have to answer a list of questions, like every year?"

"Well, yes," says Malfoy. "But preparation never hurts. I should be going. Blaise probably has some supposedly hilarious story to share. Weasley, your review's next week, and you'll be with the Head Auror and the Senior Undersecretary."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," says Ron.

"And Hermione, I hope you're well," Malfoy says as he stands, turns, and walks away.

"When'd you get bumped up to first name status?" Ron asks Hermione.

"When I taught him how to heal paper cuts," she says with a shrug. "His fingertip was bleeding in the lift one day, and I showed him a fairly simple _Novastaderm _spell."

"Of course you did." Ron rolls his eyes and reaches for her hand to squeeze it. "Ready to head back, mate?" he asks Harry.

"Sure," says Harry. "Guess I have some preparation to do or something."

"Will you go over the Pendleton file with me one more time first?" Ron asks, sounding hopeful."

"'Course I will." Harry stands, and Ron and Hermione follow suit. "Should be a good distraction, if nothing else."


	3. The Interrogation Room

It's endearing, really, the way Potter's stammering his way through the standard list of questions he'd alluded to over lunch. Well, 'over lunch' isn't entirely accurate. Sure, their interaction occurred during the lunch hour, but Draco certainly wasn't eating with Potter. Maybe he should try that sometime. And maybe lethifolds make fine household pets. Draco feels the need to shake his head at his own train of thought but refrains; Hestia Jones, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Harry Potter are all in the room, and it's best not to look touched in the head when any of these three are around.

When Potter is done explaining why he's competent at his job (as though he even has to—this is, after all, a complete formality, totally irrelevant to Potter's actual success as an Auror), Head Auror Jones tells him how good he is at his job, how strong his instincts are, how much power he has and how skilled he is at reining it in as necessary. Shacklebolt's just nodding and one corner of his mouth is upturned, as if he can't handle an entire smile but he's doing his best. Draco keeps quiet, but even he has to nod when Jones mentions Potter's prowess at combating dark magic.

"All of this is to say we'd like to offer you the position of Junior Head Auror," she concludes, and Potter looks shocked. Draco can't tell if he's faking it; if he is, he's doing a damn good job of it, but Draco can't believe Potter didn't see something like this coming.

"I'd be honored, ma'am," says Potter, and it's so ... what's that word Draco hates using to describe anything? Oh, yes. It's cute. It's undeniably adorable, just like the blush that's rising to Potter's cheeks. _Dear gods_, Draco thinks to himself. _I'm further gone than I realized._

Draco distracts himself with doodling while Potter signs some papers and Shacklebolt lets loose with a few well meaning platitudes and Jones claps Potter on the shoulder, incapable of showing any more affection. It takes a moment for Draco to notice Shacklebolt, Jones, and Potter peering at him expectantly. Draco laughs genially.

"I forget myself," he says. "Congratulations, Pot—Harry." He extends his hand, and Potter eagerly shakes it while Draco convinces himself the gleam in Potter's eyes after being called by his first name was a trick of the light. Jones and Shacklebolt appear to be mollified, and Shacklebolt tells Draco he can head home for the day, and Jones tells Potter he can do the same. The two of them leave the room, and Draco's left with Potter, who still looks a bit thunderstruck.

"You didn't expect to be given the job, did you?" Draco asks.

Potter shakes his head. "No. I just never think about that kind of thing. I guess ... I guess it kind of makes sense. I'm pretty good at my job."

Draco suppresses a laugh. "Most people seem to think so, yes."

"You don't."

"What?"

"You don't think I'm any better at what I do than the other Aurors," says Potter, eyes fixed on something over Draco's shoulder—the wall, perhaps. "You've never thought of me as anything but undeserving."

"Harry—and yes, I'm calling you Harry, and it's not in front of anyone, it's just because I want you to know I mean this—I know you deserve the accolades you get," Draco says firmly, hoping his sincerity is coming through. "Maybe I didn't know that when I was, I don't know, 11 or 15, but I'm not some petulant brat anymore. I'm an adult of sound mind, or at least I'd like to think so, and I know you're every bit as brave and clever as everyone says you are."

Potter doesn't say anything for a moment that lasts entirely too long for Draco's liking. When he looks at Draco straight on, he looks ... settled. Content. Like he's heard something he's wanted to for a long time. And Draco wonders why his approval matters this much. Perhaps it's because he was the only one left of whose support Potter was unsure. In any case, Potter looks pleased as he softly says "Thank you" and begins to gather his things.

"I'm guessing you'll be celebrating with your friends tonight," Draco says, stepping toward the door to keep Potter from leaving. "You were probably going to go out with them anyway, given that it's Friday and you all seem fairly attached to each other. Still. Anyway, if you are, if you aren't, I don't care, can I buy you a round? You deserve it."

Potter's smile is damn near blinding. "Yeah. Sure. Definitely. I mean, we didn't have any real plans, we were just going to go to one of our usual pubs, but if you can convince them to do something else..."

"I do have something else in mind, actually," says Draco, half smiling at Potter, because even if he is in deep here, he doesn't want to _grin _at the git or anything. "Have you and your friends ever tried karaoke?"


	4. Ron and Hermione's House

"Going out with Malfoy? Are you mad?" Ron asks after he and Hermione have congratulated Harry with a series of hugs and handshakes and slaps on the back. "I mean, I know he's alright now, and we say hello to each other in the lifts and that kind of thing, but seeing him on purpose?"

"Come off it, Ron," says Hermione. "It can't possibly be as bad as you're making it out to be." The three of them are in Ron and Hermione's kitchen, and Ron's been on about the absurdity of spending time with Malfoy since they all got off work. In that time, Harry's left to change into a blue linen button down and denims and come back, Hermione's cooked dinner and they've eaten it, and Ron ... well, Ron's whinged. He's whinged a lot.

"And Theo will be there," Harry adds, namedropping a fellow Auror. "You like Theo."

"But ... OK. Fine. _Fine_," Ron says, dropping his hands to his sides. Hermione kisses him on the cheek and he smiles slightly. "Just tell me I don't have to sing. Or talk to Parkinson."

"You can avoid Pansy, sure, but I'm not making any promises about the singing," says Harry. "Malfoy was pretty adamant we all have a go."

"I have to admit I find it a little strange that one of Draco Malfoy's favorite places is a Muggle pub with a karaoke machine," Hermione says.

"Apparently he spent a summer or two with Theo during school," says Harry. "And Theo's neighbors are Muggles, and the affection grew from there."

"What sort of affection was that?" Ron asks, grinning.

"Hush, you," says Hermione, though she's smiling herself. "I'm sure he and Harry didn't get into that. They're not actually friends yet. Wait. Are you?"

"Friendly, I suppose," Harry says. "I mean, he apologizes, and it seems genuine, when we're still in school. He doesn't ever mean it when he's acting like a git anymore, he's apparently really good at his job, and I don't know, maybe he was never worth hating." He pauses. "No. Wait. He most definitely was. But he's not anymore."

"You'd almost think you'd think he was worth something else, Harry," Hermione says sweetly. Harry blushes, Ron looks confused, and Hermione puts an arm around each of them and steers them out the door.

It's a quick Apparition from Ron and Hermione's to the Soho karaoke bar where they're meeting Malfoy, Theo, Pansy, Ginny, and Neville. Everything feels a little surreal, the way Pansy, Ginny, and Hermione are chatting like old friends—Ginny and Pansy work together at St. Mungo's, and Pansy's grown up quite a bit, thus Harry's comfort with calling her by her first name—and how relaxed Neville looks, pint in hand, as he and Theo stand together in the corner of the room. The room that Harry notices is filled with no one but them.

"I always reserve a private one," Malfoy says, stepping over to Harry and Ron. He's wearing an Oxford so white Harry suspects it's been starched with impossibly tight black trousers and a skinny black tie. Harry attempts to look Malfoy in the face as he hears him say, "Had to call in a favor to get it on such short notice, but it seemed a worthwhile occasion. How's it going, Weasley? Should I call you Ron so you quit looking so terrified, or would that make it worse?"

"Much worse," says Ron. Malfoy laughs at this, and to Harry's relief, Ron joins in.

"Fair enough. I'll stick with Weasley, and I'm quite sure I won't be calling this one Harry anytime soon." Malfoy gestures at Harry. "Speaking of you, I think you're up first tonight, Potter."

"At least let me have one drink. Or three," says Harry. "This is going to take liquid courage."

"Harry's an awful singer," Ron says.

"Thanks, Ron."

"But he knows a lot of Muggle rock songs from the 60s and 70s."

"Really? How?" Malfoy sounds genuinely curious.

"When I was cleaning out my godfather's house to sell it, I found some records," says Harry. "And I practically wore them out." He'd been 19 when he and Ron moved into the flat Harry now lived in on his own, and Harry took up the responsibility of selling the Black ancestral home. Cleaning Grimmauld Place was the source of many headaches, but it also made Harry feel as though he knew Sirius much better when all was said and done—and part of that was the records, the Beatles and Pink Floyd and Bob Dylan, learning all the words and singing along, loudly and badly, as he _Scourgified _everything in sight and ignored the shrill cries of Mrs. Black's portrait. But no one really knew all that. Harry had been keeping to himself at the time, something Ron and Hermione seemed to understand. Ginny didn't, they broke up, and Harry suspects they're still so much better off for it.

"Well, I look forward to your eventual contributions, then," Malfoy says, raising his glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Are you buying?" Ron asks.

"Not for you, Weasley," says Malfoy. "For him. For the Junior Head."

Harry suppresses a blush. "Just a pint. Whatever they've got that's darkest."

"As you wish." Malfoy walks away, and something like realization seems to dawn on Ron.

"I understand now," says Ron. "What Hermione was saying earlier, I mean. You like him. And not the way you like me or her. You _like _him."

"Way to make it sound like we're 14, Ron," Harry says, tugging at one of the buttons on his shirt.

"That didn't sound like denial."

"It wasn't. Oh, shit. I'm already being terribly honest, and I'm not even drinking yet. Don't let me say anything to him, OK?"

"When did this happen?"

Harry sighs. "When did I notice he was fit? Two, three years ago, maybe? When did I get a stupid, hopeless crush on him? Last March."

Ron looks at him blankly. "Last March? Harry, it's January."

"I know."

"But you're usually—"

"Not about this kind of thing, OK? Have I ever been?" Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair, unruly as ever, he notes. "He treats me the same way he treats everyone else. There's just no way it would end well if I said something or did something or whatever."

"No, he doesn't," says Ron. "He treats you like he'd rather spend his time irritating you than doing anything else. He likes being around you, even if it's to bother you. And he did this for you. You can't say he didn't."

Harry looks around and sees Malfoy—Draco, really, he's been Draco for a while now—headed their way. "Guess he did."

"Look, mate." Ron drops his voice. "I know it took me six-odd years, but I was also 11. You're 25, and you go out and chase bad guys for a living. I'm pretty sure you can handle this, too. I'm not saying tonight, but sometime, OK?"

"Yeah, OK."

"You better mean it."

"I do."

"Mean what?" Draco hands Harry his pint.

"That you should be singing sometime around now," says Harry. "Thanks."

"Anytime you get promoted, I'll gladly provide a 3 pound pint," Draco says dryly. "And of course I'll sing. I don't want to deprive anyone of something like that."


	5. The Stage

Draco always starts with David Bowie. It used to have some deeper meaning to him, since that's what he was listening to the first time he kissed a boy—Theo's neighbor William, and come to think of it, they'd been listening to Bowie the first time they shagged, too. William was just a little bit older, 16 to Draco's 14 when they first met, and Draco, confident as he is, still doesn't quite understand what William saw in scrawny, pale him, but he's glad it happened. Their first time was fantastic, not because either knew what they were doing; it was sloppy and urgent and painful but still brilliant somehow. And even though they decided not to start back up that second summer, they'd still kiss now and then, and they'd listen to Bowie and smoke and drink and talk about how awful it was, pretending to like girls for your parents' sake.

Tonight, it's "Suffragette City," with lots of strategic hip movement and the occasional wink at Pansy, who rolls her eyes and goes back to dancing with Theo, and Ginny Weasley, who seems to take it in stride, winking right back. Theo, Pansy, and Harry—yes, Harry now, and when did _that _happen?—shout the "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!" right along with him, and Draco knows this was the right way to start the evening's entertainment.

"I don't suppose they've got any Weird Sisters, do they?" Weasley says, chuckling nervously as he steps up to the microphone. Taking pity on him, Granger comes to stand beside him, and they do a Beatles song, "Love Me Do," Draco thinks, though he's never much cared for their two-minute pop song period. After Theo tears into a bad eighties song his cousins always loved called "You Give Love a Bad Name," it's Harry's turn. He's two drinks in and apparently that's enough.

"We have Dylan on here, right?" Harry asks into the microphone. Draco nods and joins him on stage for a moment, instructing him on how to select a song. Harry picks "Like a Rolling Stone," Draco hops off the stage, and all eyes are on the no longer reluctant performer, who seems to glory in the attention. Weasley was right. Harry's not a good singer, not by any means. But he's doing a passable Dylan imitation, and he's making everyone laugh and applaud with nearly every line, and the way he looks more than compensates for any other deficiencies.

Draco's not sure exactly what it is that's making Harry so appealing right now. Maybe it's the sweat on his brow, proof of the exertion performing in front of a group of his friends takes, or the thin linen shirt that's showing off every hard, muscled line of his chest. Maybe it's the tightness of his jeans or how he dances; sure, he can't sing, but he has natural rhythm, and it's well at work now. But, Draco admits to himself, it's probably his eyes, and the way they sparkle when they meet Draco's, and the wideness of his smile and how fucking _genuine _he is, friendly and intelligent and loyal and even witty when he wants to be. Draco doesn't mean to hug Harry when he walks back over, but it happens anyway, and Harry's arms are around him, too, and it's about the best feeling Draco's had since Theo's neighbor Jamie first kissed him all those summers ago. Granted, this is quicker and a bit more embarrassing—Draco sees Theo holding back laughter over Harry's shoulder and resolves to kill him later—but it's just as good. No. Actually, it's better.

"Didn't know you moonlighted as a rock star in addition to defeating Dark Lords," says Draco lightly.

"Nowhere near as good as you," Harry says, undoing the topmost button of his shirt. Draco struggles to ignore the exposed bit of Harry's collarbone as Harry continues, "I can't sing for shit, so I thought I'd pick someone who can't, either."

"Dylan would be honored, I'm sure," says Draco. "Another drink?"

"Please," Harry says, and they walk to the bar together, Draco resisting the urge to guide Harry by the elbow as they shove their way through the crowded front room.


	6. Interlude: The Bar

"Smitten, isn't he?" Pansy muses as soon as Harry and Draco are out of earshot.

"Which one?" Ginny asks with a snort. "Harry can't stop grinning like an idiot at Malfoy—sorry, Draco, I've got to work on that—and Malfoy clearly wants to put his hands all over him."

"Can we not?" Ron grimaces.

"Hear, hear," says Theo, raising his glass. "Make no mistake, I'm happy if Draco's happy, but the fact that it's with Harry is more than a little disturbing, even if they are both my friends."

"Didn't think you had any problem with two men being together, Theo," says Pansy.

"I don't," Theo says. "Otherwise I wouldn't have set Draco up with my very male, very gay neighbor during school. But Pansy, you have to understand, it's Draco Malfoy, and it's Harry Potter."

"Draco's had a crush on Harry for years," Pansy says dismissively.

"He has?" Hermione's eyes widen.

"How is this at all shocking?" Ginny asks. "They've been obsessed with each other since they were 11. And I don't think it's just Draco. Constantly sniping at each other certainly wasn't the only reason Harry and I broke up, you know."

"Well, yeah, Harry likes him," says Ron. "He said so earlier tonight."

"And he's been acting like it for ages," Hermione says, shaking her head. "Honestly, Ron—"

"Would you all shut up?" Neville breaks in. "They're coming back." And everyone resumes their post, acting as though nothing's happened, though now there's no one left unaware of the situation but Harry and Draco themselves.


	7. Draco's Flat

Many songs and even more drinks later, the group stumbles out of the bar, Draco leading the way with Harry beside him. Draco's flat is the only one within walking distance, and no one's quite sober enough to Apparate, so the plan is to drink copious amounts of water, eat some pasta (a remedy for drunkenness Harry's never heard but Pansy swears by), and loaf around till the fuzziness subsides. It only takes a few minutes of flirting to get to Draco's, where everyone squeezes into the sitting room. It's not small, but there are eight of them, and only two couples. Ginny happily deposits herself onto Neville's lap, Ron and Hermione inch closer to each other, and Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Theo are left to the couch and wingback chairs. Harry gets lucky and winds up next to Draco on the couch, though from the way Pansy's looking at the two of them, he's not sure it's an accident.

Draco calls a house elf in and instructs him to make some spaghetti and fetch them all a glass of water. The house elf nods and hurries away.

"You know, Draco—" Hermione starts. Ron cuts her off with a kiss.

"No one wants to hear it right now," he says. "Let's just relax and eat some spaghetti, OK?"

"Fine, I suppose," says Hermione, looking pleased despite herself as she allows Ron to kiss her again.

"You two are disgusting," Ginny says, leaning back against Neville.

"You should talk," says Ron. "Can't keep your hands off him, can you?"

Neville blushes, Ginny gestures rudely at Ron, and Pansy sighs deeply.

"If only Antoine were here," she says. "We'd show you how a real couple behaves."

"If Antoine were here, he'd be making the spaghetti along with the house elves," says Theo in a dry tone. "Honestly, are you planning on lifting a single finger after you're married?"

"For beckoning purposes only," she says without hesitance, and everyone laughs. It'd be funny under normal circumstances, Harry thinks, but right now, through the haze of three pints and two glasses of straight bourbon (Draco insisted), it's absolutely hilarious.

"So, Harry," Pansy says. "What's your love life looking like these days? The _Prophet _hasn't said anything interesting about you since you dated that Irish Seeker. What was his name again? Liam, right?"

Suddenly, everyone's looking at Harry. He gratefully accepts a glass of water from the house elf, who's returned with their beverages and two loaves of bread. After taking a sip, Harry says, "Yeah. Liam O'Leary."

"And that was, what, two years ago? What _have _you been up to since then?"

"A whole lot of swings and misses by an endless array of eligible men and eager women," Ginny says, smirking. "It was Oliver Wood most recently, right? You attract Quidditch players. You always have."

"It's true, isn't it?" Ron says, sounding as if he's discovered something marvelous. "Cho and Ginny during school, and I know something had to have happened with Charlie's friend who came and visited with him the summer after eighth year. And then there was—"

"Ron, dear, I don't think it's really necessary to catalog Harry's romantic past," Hermione says. Harry shoots her a grateful look; so does Draco, if Harry's not mistaken. "To answer your initial question, Pansy, Harry is single, and the _Prophet _can't say much about that, other than calling him a shut-in with possible psychological problems."

"Spaghetti for Master Malfoy and his guests," the house elf announces upon rushing back into the room.

"How do they do it so fast?" Ron asks.

"Malfoy house elves are the best kind," says Draco, handing the elf a Galleon. Hermione's eyes widen.

"You _pay _your house elves?" she asks in disbelief.

"What can I say? I'm a very giving person." Draco winks at her, and Hermione smiles broadly back at him. She nods at Harry, who reads it as some sort of approval. Why she thinks he needs that right now, Harry's not sure, but he'll take it nonetheless.

"I don't know if it's going to make me any more sober," Ron says. "But this is amazing. Where'd you find that elf?"

"He's been in the family for years," says Draco. "And he's not for sale."

"How'd you get to keep him, anyway?" asks Pansy. "I thought for sure your parents would want Minky with them in France for sure." Harry's read the _Prophet _enough to know that after Lucius Malfoy finished his two-year stint in Azkaban, he and Narcissa moved to Lyon.

"I think it was an apology for not taking me with them, though I never expressed any interest in going," Draco says. "I was already doing the job Blaise does now at the Ministry, and I already had this place. Why would I leave?"

"What does Blaise do, anyway?" asks Theo. "He's never said."

"Paperwork," says Draco. "Reams and reams of tedious, mind-numbing paperwork. There's good reason he hasn't explained it."

"Ron, as soon as you're done, we should go," Hermione says. "I'm absolutely knackered."

Ron nods. "I'm good, I think. Thanks for the food, Malfoy. It's been a surprisingly good night."

"Now you understand why Slytherin parties were the subject of so much gossip," says Draco. "Goodnight."

The rest of the group sounds off with a chorus of goodbyes. Ginny and Neville are next to leave, and Harry's left with a trio of people who, a few years ago, he would've never expected to spend time with willingly. Now, it just feels natural as Pansy talks about her upcoming trip to visit Antoine and Theo complains about his parents' insistence he marry a Greengrass daughter.

"They're both lovely, and I mean that," he says. "But I wouldn't say no to meeting someone on my own. How'd you worm your way out of a pureblood marriage, Draco?"

"You already know the answer to that question," says Draco. "I told my parents I was gay, my father expressed his disapproval for a few years, my mother spoke sense to him, and that was the end of that. And the end of the Malfoy line, I suppose."

"You could adopt," Pansy says.

"I'm not really much for kids, especially on my own."

"You wouldn't have to be on your own."

"Well, it's not an immediate possibility, anyway." Draco waves his hand, as if to shake off the subject. "Pansy, aren't you meeting the Greengrasses at 9 tomorrow morning for whatever it is the three of you do together?"

"Yes," she says. "What's that matter?"

"Well, it's nearly 3 in the morning."

Pansy swears and Apparates without another word.

"I may as well be going, too," Theo says, standing and stretching. "It's been a pleasure. See you in the office." Harry lifts his hand in a wave, Draco tells Theo goodnight, and Theo disappears with a crack, leaving Harry and Draco on their own.


	8. Draco's Couch

"Have I shown you a good time, then, Potter?" Draco looks at Harry and tries to smirk, but it ends up as a smile anyway, and he lets it happen, but only because it makes Harry smile, too.

"I never believed the gossip, but I should've," says Harry. "Karaoke. How'd that happen?"

"Actually, it was my mother's idea," Draco says. "Not karaoke, specifically, but spending time in Muggle areas, understanding their culture beyond Muggle Studies classes, that sort of thing. She became quite fond of tolerance somewhere down the line."

"And the karaoke?"

"A distant cousin of Pansy's went to Muggle university and got into it there. Samantha introduced us to the beauty of karaoke, and now I've introduced you and your lot to it as well."

"My lot, eh?"

"They're not such a bad group, I suppose." Draco can't stop grinning at him. He likely looks like an idiot, but looking like an idiot never felt this good before.

"We could do this again, you know," says Harry almost shyly, not quite meeting Draco's eyes. "It doesn't have to be this rare celebratory thing. I mean, I like your friends and you're at least tolerant of mine."

"More than tolerant. But don't tell them I said so."

"And maybe it's not really that weird that we'd be friends," Harry says. Now he's looking at Draco, those enormous green eyes so distracting that Draco hardly hears Harry's next words. "We're not really very different at all, are we? Competitive and stubborn and confident and, well, can I say I'm smart and witty without sounding like a prat? 'Cause you're both those things, and I sometimes think I am, too."

"Maybe you should cross confidence off that list," Draco suggests, secretly glorying in the slew of compliments.

"Well, you know what I mean, anyway," says Harry. "I—shit, I'm really bad at this."

"At what?"

"Words, I guess. Not so much for them when other things are so much easier."

"What other things?"

Harry leans over and says, "I think you already know" before kissing Draco. And it's like nothing else Draco's ever felt before. He finds himself kissing back without thinking, and there are several long minutes of unthinking bliss as they kiss, lips and tongues moving together in a rhythm so perfect, so pleasurable that Draco doesn't have any desire to ever let go. And Harry seems pleased, too, pleased as he pulls Draco toward him by the waist and slips his fingers into Draco's belt loops and moves his mouth from lips to throat and back again. Draco doesn't care where his hands are so long as they're on Harry; right now there's one at the back of his neck and the other's running idly up and down one of his thighs. Harry's moaning his approval and Draco hears himself gasping and it's messy and urgent and absolutely brilliant.

"That ... wow." Draco laughs shakily and looks down, realizing that at some point they've gone horizontal with him on top of a glassy-eyed Harry. "You..."

"I've never known you to be speechless, Malfoy," says Harry with an unabashed grin. "So, good for you, too, then?"

"I don't know why you're even asking," Draco says. "I haven't felt like that since ... ever. I don't know that I've ever felt this good before."

"You flatter me," says Harry. "I mean, of course I feel that way, too, but I've only kissed a string of meaningless Quidditch players. Some without tongue. Up till about six minutes ago, I was sure you were dating Blaise Zabini, or at least shagging him."

"Gods, no. What a horrifying idea. Why would you think that?"

"Ron suggested it the other day, the way he always touches you. Drives me mad, really."

"It won't have to drive you mad anymore. I promise." Draco leans down and brushes a kiss across the crown of Harry's head. "I'll say something. He's wanted it—me, a relationship, whatever—forever. Since school, even."

"Well, you were fit, weren't you? We hit fifth year and everyone was looking at you."

"Same with you and sixth, though it happened earlier for me, I'm afraid," Draco admits.

"How early was that?"

Draco replies quietly enough that Harry inclines his head forward.

"I don't want to tell you," says Draco, and he really doesn't.

"I'll suck you off later if you do," Harry offers.

"Agreed," Draco says without thinking. "Remember Dueling Club, second year? When Severus paired us together and I said 'Scared, Potter' and you said 'You wish'? Then. Right then."

"Oh, gods. You were 12?"

"I was 12."

"So much catching up to do," Harry says, sighing and looping his arms around Draco's neck. "You didn't ... have a crush on me, though, did you?"

"Of course not! You were a git to me. Didn't have a crush on you till eighth year. Didn't realize it might be more than a crush till last March."

"That's when it happened for me, too."

"And neither of us said anything?"

"March was when I realized you weren't at all what I thought you were," says Harry. "I mean, I didn't hate you anymore, not even close—I was just kind of indifferent, that's all. But then you walked into our office one day, and you just looked so ... happy. So light. Like you loved your job and you really, really wanted to be there, helping people." Harry pauses. "Your robes were really nice whatever day that was, too."

"My robes are always really nice."

"I like you better like this," says Harry, tugging at Draco's tie.

"And you make jeans look like nothing I've ever seen," Draco says. "Is that enough of talking about our feelings? Can we express them now?"

"You've hardly expressed yours."

"I'm not much for that, Harry."

"Can you be?" Draco looks down at Harry and his eyes, no longer obscured by glasses, which got lost in the snogging shuffle somewhere down the line. "For me?"

"I can try." Draco hesitates. "I can't promise I'm always going to be good at telling you how I feel. But for your sake, I'll try to open up, or whatever you'd call it."

"Brilliant. Wait. Are we dating now?"

Draco laughs. Harry joins in. "That depends. Would you like to be?"

"More than anything," says Harry. "And you?"

"You wouldn't very purposely be the last to leave my flat if I didn't," Draco says.

"You spoke to Pansy and Theo in code, didn't you? That bit about meeting the Greengrasses tomorrow?"

Draco nods proudly. "Got that one worked out years ago. Aces, right?"

"You're ridiculous," says Harry, shaking his head and kissing Draco's cheek. "But only in the best possible way."

"I'm well aware. Now, how good are you at holding up your end when it comes to wagers?"

"Very good indeed." Harry's hands move from Draco's back down to his belt buckle, and the combination of the snapping of leather, the clinking of metal, and Harry's happy sigh is one of the most satisfying things Draco thinks he's ever heard.


	9. Draco's Kitchen

It's been a good long while since Harry's been woken with anything but the shrill, insistent beep of an alarm that looks like a Golden Snidget. So soft kisses on the back of his neck are a welcome change, very welcome indeed. He rolls over and gives Draco a sleepy smile. Draco doesn't stop, dipping his head to kiss Harry's collarbones, pausing only to say, "Good morning, then."

"It is, isn't it? Is that coffee I smell?"

"Indeed it is." Draco pulls back and looks at Harry, smiling slightly. "I picked up your favorite kind in case, well."

"In case I got too tired to go back to mine after doing all sorts of dirty things to you late in the night?"

"Right. That. Exactly. Pot should be ready, anyway. I took the liberty of laying out some pajamas for you." Draco sits up and nods at the chair in the corner. The pajamas aren't laid out so much as neatly folded, Harry suspects by Draco's house elf. "I'm having dinner with my mother at 5, and I'm yours till then, if you want me to be."

"Of course I do," says Harry, watching Draco as he goes to leave the room—Draco's bedroom, Harry remembers, thinking of what a surprisingly cuddly sleeping partner Draco is. Draco leans against the doorframe, smile still on his face. "Just your mum, then? Not your dad?"

"He doesn't like going out too much anymore, and he especially doesn't like coming back here," Draco says. "Are you hungry? I'm afraid I'm not too posh on Saturdays. I usually just have Minky make bacon sandwiches."

"That sounds brilliant," says Harry, and he means it. "I'm right behind you. And hey, you know I meant it, right?"

"Meant what?"

"I want to date you."

"Yes, I know you're sincere, Harry. But I won't say no to hearing it over again." Draco leaves, and Harry sits up and stretches. He's meant to meet up with Ron and Hermione at 5 himself, and he can't deny he's looking forward to their congratulations and the accompanying smug expressions. For a moment, he wonders why he's not being invited along to Draco's dinner, but he dismisses the thought as he puts on Draco's pajamas (a bit long, but otherwise a perfect fit, which he'll keep in mind, he thinks, glancing over Draco's open closet) and heads out to the kitchen.

Harry sits down next to Draco at the cozy round table. He takes a sip of his coffee, bites down on a bacon sandwich (hopefully the first of many), and picks up a section of the weekend _Prophet_.

"You're easy to read, you know," says Draco, lifting his coffee cup to his smirking lips.

"Am I?"

"I can't ask you to go to dinner with my mother when she doesn't know what's on between us. She's still not quite used to the idea of the death of the Malfoy line, so relationships, it's a subject to be broached carefully. Please don't be offended, Harry. It'll take a bit of time."

Harry nods. "I'm not. And I'm glad you said something. Really. Speaking of, though ... relationships."

Draco's lips quirk into a smile. "Yes?"

"How many of those have there been?"

"I suppose it's only fair you know," says Draco. "Last night's discussion was rather enlightening for me. Just a girlfriend and a friend of Weasley's brother, and then some other bloke Weasley didn't get a chance to describe?"

"Two after Charlie's friend, actually," Harry says. "And I've kissed Charlie, too, although it was only once and we agreed it was a bad idea."

"And who were those next two?"

"We were supposed to go over _your _history, not mine."

"Well, we'll finish yours and move to mine next. Ginny, friend of Charlie, and two other men. Who were these mystery men?"

"Justin Finch-Fletchley was next," says Harry. "He's a Curse Breaker. We were partnered on a case when I was 19 and dated for about a year. Brilliant kisser, fine at everything else, and very caring and sincere, but we got a bit bored of each other. Then Ginny—she was still playing Quidditch at the time—introduced me to Liam."

"Ah, yes, the Irish one. He plays for Falmouth, right?"

Harry nods. " We saw each other on and off for three years. Mostly off, but that took me through till I was, what, 23? And I haven't dated since. I mean, my friends have set me up loads of times. You've seen us at the bar. It's this endless parade of fame seekers and old friends, none of them particularly ... attention grabbing, I guess. And now, here we are."

"And you're not carrying a torch for any of them anymore? Not feeling your heart skip a beat when Finch-Fletchley stops by the Auror office or buying extra copies of _Quidditch Quarterly _when there's a Falcons cover story?"

Harry shakes his head firmly. The second he's finished his bacon sandwich, Minky is over with another. He nods his thanks. "As I've said, I've been interested in you for nearly a year. There's been no one else for me." Harry can sense Draco's trying not to look too happy about this, but his smile betrays him. "Now that you know everything—"

"Not everything," Draco breaks in. "You've said nothing of sexual history."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Never shagged Ginny or Charlie's friend. Shagged Justin maybe six times total. Liam quite enjoyed sex, and he was good at it, so it happened a fair few times. Two one-offs after that, one I'm still friendly with and don't have to see very often, thankfully, and the other an unmitigated disaster. Now do I get to hear of your exploits?"

"I said you would, and I'm a man of my word," says Draco. "William Nott, Theo's cousin, was my first boyfriend. He was two years older, and we dated for a couple summers, starting when I was 14. After that, I continued to avoid Blaise's dogged pursuits and have to this day. Instead, I dated Jaime Connelly, a Ravenclaw, on and off for the rest of school. Then a couple years later I met the Weird Sisters' bassist."

"You dated Alistair Kensington?"

"Yeah, Ali's lovely. I introduced him to his current girlfriend, actually. He was messing about with me, and we were together, more or less, till I was 22. Then there were a few miserable dates with Astoria Greengrass when my parents were still hoping I'd change my mind about preferring cock." Harry snorts, and Draco smirks and continues. "Since then, it's been admiring you from afar and ignoring Theo's pleas for double dates with the Sisters Greengrass."

"So we're on equal footing, more or less," says Harry. "Though you had more real relationships during school than I did."

"Yes, and I did have one more one-off than you, but two of three were, as you so eloquently put it, unmitigated disasters, and I'd prefer to forget about them," Draco says. "But I won't hold one extra shag over your head. Too much, that is."

"I'd expect no less," Harry says solemnly. "That's all we really have to get out of the way, right? Before we can properly launch into this relationship bit?"

"I think so, assuming you're telling the truth about not having any lingering feelings for anyone else."

Harry sighs. "Draco, if I say something, I mean it. And you? You don't weep when you hear a Weird Sisters song about a woman?"

Draco laughs. "Not even a little. Like I said, I've had my eye on you for as long as you've had yours on me, and there's been no one else worth my attention." He stands and pulls Harry by the hand. "I've a couple errands to run at Diagon before I meet up with my mother. Care to join? I'll parade you around by the hand and the photographers will have a field day with the former Death Eater, current Ministry minion and the Savior of our world acting like a pair of schoolchildren."

"Depends," Harry says. "Will there be snogging?"

"Ever so much," says Draco.

"Then I'm up for it. Should I keep on wearing your pajamas?"

"No, we'll switch you over to something else from my wardrobe."

"And can you repay me for services rendered last night before we do anything else?"

"Took you long enough to ask," says Draco, retaining his grip on Harry's hand and nearly dragging him to the bedroom.


	10. The Restaurant in London

"I'm sorry Father couldn't make it, by the way," Draco says to his mother. They're in a Muggle restaurant in London, one he hasn't tried but his mother's sister raves about. So far, on the strength of the wine and appetizers, it lives up to the reputation Aunt Andromeda established.

"He sends his regards, though I'm not sure I'll be sending yours back in full," says his mother with a small smile. "Before you object, I am happy if you are happy, and it seems as though Harry makes you happy. But I imagine it would be prudent to wait until it gets serious before we tell your father who you've decided to take up with."

"Serious. I'm not even sure what that looks like, frankly."

"Well, were Harry a pureblood, it would involve courtship." Draco cringes, and his mother smirks. "Your father also detested the idea, but he was a perfect gentleman about it. Of course, your father was fortunate, in that he'd become romantically interested in me even before our parents arranged our marriage. Speaking of arranged marriages, Astoria's mother sends her regards and wonders if you'd reconsider."

"How many years is she going to wonder that?"

"Until she sees the evening addition of the _Prophet_, I imagine," Draco's mother says. "I took the liberty of bringing my copy." A waiter drops off their food as Draco grabs the paper, looking at the front page.

"Dear gods," says Draco. His mother's charmed it so the photographs aren't moving, but he can tell if they were, he'd be nuzzling his nose into Harry Potter's neck all over the front page. "When does this come out?"

"Usually around 6, but they seem to have opted for an early release today. Any news that involves Mr. Potter is fit to print, and relationship news is certainly front-page material. This is interesting, though."

"What's that?"

"Well, he dresses much better now, doesn't he?" Draco snickers. His mother continues, "It's interesting, because clearly, he knew someone would inform the _Prophet _and you'd be the news of the day. And judging from what goes on in that picture, he doesn't seem to care."

"No," says Draco, smiling faintly as he looks at Harry's grin in the picture. "He doesn't."

"Have you thought this through?" Draco's mother asked. It sounds as though she's choosing her words carefully.

"In what regard?"

"Despite your ranking at the Ministry and your general avoidance of the sort of behavior that is frowned upon in our society, our family name is still not exactly clear." His mother looks at him across the table, studying him carefully; Draco stiffens, as this is never a comfortable position to be in. "You taking up with Mr. Potter, well, not everyone is going to be pleased."

"Well, that's their problem, then, isn't it?"

"It is yours as well and you know it, Draco. I know you can take insults, but have you thought about the possibility of physical assaults?"

Draco barks out a laugh. "You really think seven or eight years on or however many it's been, that's still a possibility?"

"Of course I really think so. Why do you think I haven't returned?"

"I thought you liked France."

"I like safety. France just happens to have that." Draco's mother's facial expression softens. "I don't mean to scare you. I just want you to be as happy as you are now with no ... interruptions."

"I can be happy, but I'm afraid I won't be this happy without him," Draco admits, somehow finding the strength to look his mother in the eye. "I don't love him, obviously. We've been together less than two full days. But there's something about him. He makes me feel ... I don't know, lighter. Like I don't have to worry quite so much if he's going to be around."

"You do worry too much."

"I don't think that'll be a problem anymore."

His mother nods and smiles slightly. "I just hope you will be careful."

"When have I not been careful?"

"I seem to recall some embarrassing tales out of school involving transfiguration and dressing up as a dementor."

"I was a child." Draco attempts to suppress a smile at the idea of elaborately mocking Harry Potter and fails. "I was allowed my minor indiscretions. It's going to be fine, Mother."

"I hope so."

"Enough about me and the possibility of physical harm," says Draco. "How's Teddy?"

Draco's mother breaks into a full-on smile as she talks and talks about her grandnephew, and Draco nods and asks questions and wonders how hard it will be to push assaults, on himself or Harry or both, out of his mind.


	11. Harry's Flat

The absence of Howlers or curses via owl in Harry's home is a pleasant surprise, to be sure. He and Draco were nothing if not public in their displays of affection earlier, and Hermione thought that was downright idiotic, "if only a little bit adorable," in her words. But when he comes back from dinner, all he has is a flurry of congratulations, and Harry wonders if this—their relationship—was the last bit of rehabilitation Draco's reputation needed. He wants an outsider's opinion, a non-Draco opinion, on the subject, and he knows Ron and Hermione are otherwise occupied. Harry shudders slightly and walks to his fireplace. Luna will know. Luna always does.

"I'm going to have to speak rather quietly," she says, sounding dreamy as always. "George is asleep." She and George have been together for three months—an odd match, initially, but it fit somehow, considering the losses in their lives and a shared sense of whimsy.

"How are you and George doing?"

Luna smiles. "He's good for me, I think."

"I'm sure he is."

"And I'm sure Draco is for you. I saw the _Prophet_ earlier. You look very nice together."

"No ill will toward him, then?" Harry asks. "I'd think you would be more justified than anyone, having something against the Malfoys."

"It was never his decision," she says. "None of it was. Yes, he took the Mark, but only because his father was looking over his shoulder the whole time." She pauses. "He treated us well, you know. The others tended to beat up on us a bit, but he'd bring us extra food and stay a few steps away."

"I'm wondering..." Harry hesitates. "Do you think this was kind of a final step for his image, him having someone like me?"

"You don't think he's using you, do you, Harry?"

"No! Definitely not." Harry shakes his head adamantly. "I just ... I'm hoping this was enough. That everyone's going to be OK with it now, you know? With him."

"Did you get any Howlers, then?" Luna asks.

"None," says Harry, smiling. "A few notes from friends saying 'Good on you,' though."

"I would've sent one, but George and I were having sex," says Luna, sounding apologetic. "I'm sure you understand."

Harry holds back a laugh. "Of course. Sex."

"I'm glad we can speak frankly of it," says Luna. "Ron still doesn't seem to like it when I mention his brother's prowess."

"I never really went in for George," Harry says. "Hope you won't tell him that. I always thought Bill was the best looking Weasley."

"Before or after the scars?"

"Both."

"Oi." Harry hears a sleepy voice before he sees George's face, expression swallowed up in a yawn. "You two talking about how much you'd like to shag my brother? You know, in time, I might actually become sensitive about that sort of thing."

"Hi, George," Harry says, grinning.

George is smiling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Harry. Saw the _Prophet_. Interesting choice you've made."

"Is interesting the best you can say about it?" Harry asks.

George cocks his head to the side and pauses before saying, simply, "Yes."

"Fair enough." Harry turns to look at Luna, attempting not to let his annoyance at George show on his face. "Thanks for the reassurance, Luna."

"Anytime, Harry," she says. "Do you need to go have sex now?"

"No, actually, I think I'm just going to read," says Harry. "Good night, you two."

"Night," Luna says. George nods, and Harry lets the fire burn itself out as he sits on the couch and wonders how pathetic it would be to call Draco next. He should've expected not everyone would be thrilled at the prospect of him dating Draco. But did it have to be George who disapproved? Molly, who always wanted to see him end up with Ginny; Justin, who still tried to contact him on occasion; Kesya Delaney, the Auror secretarial assistant who didn't think anyone was good enough for Harry Potter—he'd expect and accept their disapproval, if it came to that. George, though ... Harry had been under the impression that George wanted him to be happy, whoever that was with. Apparently that wasn't the case.

Harry's about to reach for the latest _Quidditch Quarterly _when there's a tapping on the window. He turns around to see a tawny owl he vaguely recognizes. When he opens the window, the owl obediently sticks out his leg, attached to which is a rolled-up parchment in a light green color. Harry scratches the owl's head and retrieves an owl treat from the cabinet before settling in to read the letter.

_Is it pathetic that all I'm doing is drawing pictures and thinking of you?_

Harry smiles and scrawls a quick reply.

_I was just wondering if it was pathetic to call you. I didn't know you sketched._

He sends off his missive and halfheartedly skims through an article about the benefits and drawbacks of the Shooting Star V. Resolving not to buy a Shooting Star V in the near future (too springy, they say, and only a good choice for Keepers), he starts in on an interview with Ali Ward, Puddlemere United's newest Chaser. He's cute, Harry thinks, though his hair could stand to be a little more polished and maybe less brown, and the chipped front tooth doesn't work all that well for him. Harry's asking himself when he started caring so much about aesthetics as the owl swoops in through the still-open window with another letter.

_Sketching is one word for it. There's an easier way to do this, you know._

"And it only would've been pathetic to call me if I hadn't been thinking of you already," Draco says from the fireplace. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Harry looks down at himself. He's really not at his best, all things considered; his t-shirt is tatty, and he hadn't bothered to leave his jeans on when he got home from Ron and Hermione's, but at least his flat's much cleaner and well decorated than Grimmauld Place. He'd hired someone to fix things up when he and Ron first moved there, and they'd stayed largely the same in the years that followed. Despite how messy he feels, Draco looks at both Harry and the room surrounding him with approval. Harry stands to greet him, and Draco grins—so blinding, so beautiful—and pulls Harry back onto the couch. Once Harry's settled in, Draco drapes his legs over Harry's lap.

"Get as comfy as you want, then," Harry says. He's grinning, too. "How was your dinner?"

"Fine. Oysters. Lamb shank. Approval of my choice in mate, with a bit of warning concerning the mortal peril I've put us both in."

"Mortal peril?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Nothing. Just my mother being paranoid."

"Well, at least she approves."

"I knew she would. How are Hermione and Weasley?"

"About the same as they were yesterday, though Hermione thought I was mental with the whole _Prophet _thing," says Harry, reaching for Draco's foot and kneading it with his thumbs and fingertips. Draco groans, and Harry persists, not minding the reaction. "She was sure I'd get Howlers. But I didn't get any, just some congratulatory notes and Luna Lovegood assuring me everything would be OK."

"You needed Luna's confirmation on that?"

"No. I just wanted to talk to someone ... outside."

Draco nods. "She approves, then? And that's every bit as important as my mother's approval?"

"More or less. Her boyfriend's not wild about it, though."

"Why does he matter?"

"He's George Weasley."

"Oh." Draco frowns but doesn't hold back a happy sigh as Harry's hands shift to his ankles. "I can see why that might be a problem for you."

"Not enough for this to stop." Harry lets go of Draco's ankles to hold his hands. "I don't care who disapproves, OK? I mean, I care. Just not in a way that would make me end things with you. I value this too much already."

Draco swings his feet to the floor and scoots closer to Harry. Harry drapes his arm around Draco's shoulders, and Draco leans into him. "It's a bit frightening, really," says Draco.

"What's that?"

Draco turns to look at Harry. "Feeling so strongly about someone so quickly."

"Well, it's been percolating for a while, right?"

"Nice word there, Potter."

"Shut it. I mean, we've been interested in each other for nearly a year, right? Of course finding out we both feel the same way is going to intensify things."

"And I have no objection to that intensity," says Draco. "If only our opinions were the only two that mattered."

"To some extent, though, they are." Harry leans over and kisses Draco, quickly, sweetly. "At least, right now they are."

Draco smiles. "And I suppose your opinion is that we should be well past talking by now?"

"You know me so well," says Harry, leaning in again.


End file.
